


The Smallest Chickadee

by Apricot



Category: Robert Frost - Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apricot/pseuds/Apricot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is warmth and comfort in the nest that hangs in the thickest branches of the alder tree. At night, when the cold is sharpest and the skies are full of silent predators, his father, his mother, and his nest mates creep close, using their feathers and heat to surround him. As the smallest, he is the least bit of help. His tiny downy feathers puff as fiercely as a dandelion seed.</p><p>But now he is alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smallest Chickadee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdaptationDecay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdaptationDecay/gifts).



The emptiness of his nest is what wakes him.

There is warmth and comfort in the nest that hangs in the thickest branches of the alder tree. At night, when the cold is sharpest and the skies are full of silent predators, his father, his mother, and his nest mates creep close, using their feathers and heat to surround him. As the smallest, he is the least bit of help. His tiny downy feathers puff as fiercely as a dandelion seed.

But now he is alone.

He opens his beak to cry out plaintively in fear, but the sudden thrum of his mother's wings calm him.

His small feet trembling, his body shaking of the cold; he hops up, fluttering closer to the branch where his family perch just outside the nest.

The wind is chilled with frost, a bittersweet cold that sweeps over his feathers and makes them rustle. He creeps to nudge and wedge between his nest mates and his mother, peering out inquisitively.

The forest is silent. It is still. There is only the faint sound of crunching snow- the whisper of wind- the tingle of a bell- and he peers curiously at the source. It is two animals; a horse- its brown coat speckled white with falling snow- and the rider. His eyes flick to them both, examining for quick moment.

"_It's only a lady,"_ he chatters, and feels the heavy puff of his mother's and nest mates' rebuke. His shrill chitter breaks the silence like a crackle of ice, and he nestles back to them, abashed.

"She is a lady," says his mother. "But not only. Tonight, she is the Snow Queen."

The horse and the rider pause at the wide expanse of untouched snow, the horse tossing his head as the wind sweeps through the branches of the trees.

"How is she a Queen?" he says curiously, creeping closer.

"Many creatures are all kinds at once," his mother says. "She is many kinds tonight."

The smallest chickadee gives a warble that he had been practicing.

"_Chick-dee-dee-"_

 His sister's fluffed body gives a shiver that has a shade of disdain, and he stops, abashed.

There is a flutter of wings, and his father lands lightly on the branch, his head cocking in a curious fashion before he trills. His father's call is the loudest in their family, the most musical, and the smallest chickadee cocks his head too in imitation.

The Snow Queen stops.

"Will she feed us?" the smallest chickadee perks. Nearer to the town, people would hold out their gloved palms with seeds inside. It is a boon for the coldest winters, and the bravest chickadees would land on human fingers to take the seeds. "I hope she feeds us."

"No," his mother says. 

The woman's hair is the color of dead grass, her garments thick and white with snow. The horse shudders again, and she leans forward, touching the side of his head before they move on.

The smallest chickadee shifts, moving numbed toes and huddling down. "Can we go back to the nest?"

His mother pecks his head, a nip that was half out of love and half in teaching. "We give our respects."

"What about _owls?" _Owls are the chickadee's greatest fear. Their hoots often resonate through this forest, making him tremble in the dead of the night even when he is safe in his nest. 

His father hops to the family branch, stepping closer to his small brood. "They will as well."

There are many eyes in the trees tonight. All of them watch the Snow Queen. The smallest chickadee shivers again, nuzzling close. The forest is dark, beckoning, and he feels the smallest thrill of fear as he bristles again, knocking away ice crystals that form on his downy feathers.

He cannot remain silent for long, too tenacious and too curious.

"Where does she go when it isn't _cold?"_

The family of birds is silent, the branch swaying softly in the winter wind.

"Far," his father intones, in a way that was told him to remain quiet now.

His mother begins to sing, a high soprano to his father's voice as he picks up the melody. Their duet does not reach far- the snow and cold dampen the sound- and was altogether brief, but the smallest chickadee nestles close, letting the notes he knew by heart fill him. And then the sounds of other birds on other branches punctuate the tune, soft and lyrical as the snow falls.

The smallest chickadee shivers again as the bass hoot of an owl punctuates the song, glad it is far away. He flutters as he huffs softly. The soft jingle of the horse seems to disappear into the deepness of the trees, as if slipping underwater, and the bird chorus fades until the only sound that is left is the whispering of the branches. They dip and shift, arching into the air as the wind picks up. The snow comes harder, it seems, as the last of the bells disappear.

Cold is silence in the deep forest, and slowly the birds flutter and file back to their nest. This time, the chickadees are silent. The spell of their song cannot be broken; winter is beautiful and harsh. They all sense it, and their quiet hallows the forest. The smallest chickadee once more nestles back to the center of his nest mates, still quiet, every eye in the nest bright.

There is only the sounds of the sweep of easy wind and the downy flake, a white veil amidst the black trees.

__

**Author's Note:**

> Whose woods these are I think I know,  
> His house is in the village though.  
> He will not see me stopping here,  
> To watch his woods fill up with snow.
> 
> My little horse must think it queer,  
> To stop without a farmhouse near,  
> Between the woods and frozen lake,  
> The darkest evening of the year.
> 
> He gives his harness bells a shake,  
> To ask if there is some mistake.  
> The only other sound's the sweep,  
> Of easy wind and downy flake.
> 
> The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
> But I have promises to keep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep.
> 
>  


End file.
